


this quarter’s performance review

by DeHeerKonijn



Series: like, comment, subscribe [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Arguments and Apologies, Fluff, M/M, Modern AU, Working it out together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-20 06:46:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30000888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeHeerKonijn/pseuds/DeHeerKonijn
Summary: Gimli is having a bad day - Legolas appears with a peace offering. It’s blueberry flavored!
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Series: like, comment, subscribe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2183949
Comments: 21
Kudos: 69





	this quarter’s performance review

**Author's Note:**

> I was taking a broad look at everything I’ve made for this modern AU and started to feel a little self conscious that it’s all... like... porn. Lmfao But then I found this in my drafts and wowza, it’s from June 2019!! I think it might be the first thing I ever tried to write for this AU, so in the interest of archiving I decided to clean it up and post it. :) 
> 
> It’s unbeta’d, but all the same and as always I’d like to thank Roselightfairy for the eyes and ears and general enthusiasm for this extremely indulgent toy box I’ve been playing in haha!! Thank you for playing with me Rose!!

The copper bell out in the quad can be heard all the way back on South Campus. It’s like the starting shot for a race, a cacophony of chairs squealing against the abused floor granting leave to a stampede of relieved students getting up to go. A little too eagerly, Gimli thinks, annoyed. 

Well, maybe he’s projecting - he was annoyed before he even came to class this morning. More than annoyed. 

He ignores the handful of stragglers who take their time chatting, packing up their tablets and notebooks, finishing up their conversations that Gimli has no doubt were previously conducted via eMessage during his lecture. He turns his tired eyes away from the January gray outside to his own scruffy stack of papers, illuminated by the soft glow of his laptop. He sighs. A day full of pre-exam crunch seems impossible right now - and there’s still so much material left to cover. 

Gimli works hard. He loves his job, loves touching young minds and giving them the tools they need to go carve out their own brilliant futures or whatever the fuck. All that warm and fuzzy nonsense people write inspiring local news pieces about in the _Gondor Horn_. 

But honestly, some days, it feels like herding elves. No, he doesn’t want to think about elves right now. It feels like herding cats.

It feels like he’s poured his entire youth into academia (and his savings into student loans) only to have earned the handsome reward of … three hundred pairs of eyes staring down at him from the amphitheater, and not a single soul registering what he’s saying. 

It’s frustrating, on bad days. Days like today, when he all but vibrates into class still tense and exhausted with the mental re-runs of a spectacular argument he’s been having since approximately eight PM the night before (not including the time spent sleeping on extreme opposite sides of a cold bed). He definitely feels a headache starting to wheedle its way behind his eyes as he opens up his University email to find yet _another_ student’s plea for an extension on the final project.

It’s with a gusty sigh of relief that he checks his watch. He’s got twenty blessed minutes of silence before the next lecture starts to trickle in, and he plans on spending each and every second of it brooding. Who cares if the handful of remaining students in the lecture hall can see his pout?

The knock that echoes through the cavernous room bounces off the cherry paneling on the walls and floors. Mahal forbid that anything goes according to plan today. Gimli finishes the sentence he’s currently typing and rolls his eyes - _of course_ , he thinks sullenly. 

He’s expecting some colleague he won’t have patience for, and whose feelings he will definitely hurt in his sour mood. But when he looks up, he doesn’t find Gamling or Eomer here to ask for a favor. Instead it is Legolas who lingers at the doorway, peeking around the frame. His hair is patinated by the sickly fluorescent lights in the hallway behind him, and he stands halfway through the threshold, neither in the room nor out of it. In a handsome green crew neck and slate grey blazer he is stylish as ever, and Gimli’s annoyance spikes just out of principle … only to fizzle out immediately at the look of contrition that Legolas is also wearing. He’s worrying his bottom lip between white teeth, brow knit in a silent question above large brown eyes.

Gimli raises his own brows, slants his gaze, trying to look cool and unbothered. After all, _he_ hasn’t done anything wrong.

However he quickly finds that despite his earlier anger, he can’t do anything but soften at the sight of his husband goggling in at him from the hall. Legolas is always so endearingly out of place at the University, looking both as lost as a hapless first-year and elegant as a palomino wading through the exhausted river of gray sweatpants and uncombed dirty hair that runs through the halls of the Arc building.

The ancient wooden floors creak under even Legolas’ light feet as the elf crosses the room. He carries himself tentatively, even after having won the reassurance of Gimli’s smile, and the meek round of his shoulders is proof enough that Legolas is remembering their fight as well - that he understands now exactly which one of them has been acting on emotion.

In another life, Gimli might have let the elf ride out his clear discomfort. He could give him the cold shoulder all day, just for the sake of watching him grovel, for Gimli’s own satisfaction. 

But he doesn’t. He’s too fond of the twelve Pomeranians stacked on top of each other masquerading as the daft elf now wordlessly asking permission just to stand next to him. He small in the classroom, tall as he is. Taller than usual, even, as Gimli sits at the lecture hall’s modest corner desk.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Gimli’s rumbling question sounds too-loud in the nearly empty room. He’s vaguely aware of the lingering students murmuring among themselves. Legolas isn't exactly Glorfindel, but prominent enough in the social eye that it would be far from the first time a fan of his has recognized him. 

“I’m sorry,” Legolas says, and when he speaks it’s on a low breath, the voice of a private conversation in a library. The hollow plunk of a cardboard travel cup placed on the desk is his peace offering. 

Gimli looks down at it in surprise. He was too busy watching Legolas spare a wary glance for the first-years to notice the two drinks he carried with him.

“What’s this?” Gimli says, picking up the cup and cracking open the plastic lid carefully. The smell of strong black coffee sends a zing of pleasure straight behind his eyes, and that headache he was working on vanishes immediately. There’s a little brown bag, too, stamped with a cheerful green pony and containing a blueberry danish. 

“You went all the way over to Barliman’s?”

“You left in such a hurry this morning that you forgot to eat breakfast. And, well...,” Legolas replies, still shy, “I didn’t want you to have to face exam prep with only half a brain.”

“You’re the one with half a brain,” Gimli teases. He replaces the lid and takes a fortifying sip. Barliman’s is a tug on the beard to get to, all the way over in Little Bree on the first tier, but Maker - the man knows his dark roasts.

Of course Gimli doesn’t really mean it, and it’s their usual sort of playful exchange, but Legolas still winces. 

“I am,” he admits. “I was being unfair to you because of something you can’t change.” 

If Legolas weren’t holding his own cup, Gimli knows he would be wringing his hands. He holds Gimli’s gaze, though — as if determined to do this right. 

“We shouldn’t have gone to bed angry with each other, meleth,” he whispers.

“Glad we can finally agree on something.” Gimli lets a sly grin tug the corners of his mouth.

Legolas must then finally understand that Gimli’s forgiven him, because even after that strained acknowledgement of his own faults, his soft, sweet smile is finally back. 

Gimli’s missed it since yesterday, always misses it when they’re apart. 

He pushes his laptop out of the way. The poor soul begging for an extension will have to sweat it out a minute longer. He turns himself fully to face Legolas, whose hip is now canted against the side of the desk. Gimli notices that his posture has eased, and the tentative slope of his body becomes something much more casual. A slim hand reaches out to smooth tender paths up and down Gimli’s upper bicep, touching simply because he loves to, wants to, never needing an excuse. 

“I’m sorry I get frustrated,” Repeats Legolas. He’s still soft, thoughtful. “I just — miss you this time of year, Gim. With your workload and my… well. It’s — it can be hard, to be alone.”

“Aye, I know.” And Gimli does feel guilty for keeping such long hours recently. With a twinge he remembers a moment at the height of their arguing, when Legolas insinuated wildly that Gimli’s late nights and early mornings were to get away from him, from the strain his sea-longing can sometimes cause. Gimli has never resented the support his husband needs; true to its name, the dark thoughts ebb and flow, and that’s just the way it is, and all Gimli can do is his best. But, unfortunately, sometimes the balance between duty and love is a bitter compromise.

“But you work hard, harder than anyone I know,” Legolas says, sincere. “I know that. I never doubt it.”

Gimli takes it as a sign to steer them out of that deep, dark water.

“So do you, even if I don’t always understand it.” 

He knows he also dealt out a bit of defensive hurt last night. Off the cuff and impulsive, but he knew then and knows now that it stung. Largely, Legolas may be the one with his foot in his mouth this time, but Gimli’s done his fair share of belittling the way Legolas makes a living. He should really lay off.

Legolas makes a face as if he’s going to argue for the sake of supplication.

“You do,” Gimli insists, cutting him off with a kind smile. “Just because I’m an old coot who doesn’t think twitty should be a job doesn’t mean you’re not good at it -- however it works.”

This wins a hum of amusement.

“I’m older than you. And I don’t tweet for a living,” Legolas admonishes. His voice has lost the private whisper he came with, and his words exist comfortably and, for once, confidently. “You think everything that happens on the internet is tweeting!” 

That smile is reaching Legolas’ eyes now, and Gimli’s stomach flutters a bit knowing that it’s because Legolas thinks he’s cute. 

Of course Gimli knows exactly what tweeting is. Shockingly, he even knows how it’s different from blogging, vlogging, snapping, gramming, and all that other oversharing garbage. He does teach University students, after all. 

But he will willingly play the fool if it means he’s rewarded with that smile every single time. Somehow it’s become one of his favorite pastimes.

And if Gimli is dismissive about the apparent ease of his husband’s lifestyle, one where is paid to be beautiful, well - he truly can’t cast blame. Legolas has always been beautiful. Youtube alone pulls more than its fair share of weight in putting a roof over their heads, anyway, so he really shouldn’t cast doubt when the numbers talk for themselves. But more than that, no matter how pointless he thinks being an influencer is, Gimli can never resent Legolas for doing something creative that makes him happy. 

He nods to the second cup of coffee, the one in Legolas’ now-relaxed grip. “Not tense enough today, are we?”

Legolas laughs like a songbird. “Don’t worry, it’s mostly milk. I was planning on going for a run later, before it starts — oh!” Suddenly Legolas blinks, as if remembering something. He rummages around in his canvas tote for a moment, and produces a compact-style umbrella, which he then hands to Gimli. 

“I come bearing gifts of the Galadhrim.” It’s an inside joke — Arwen’s grandma lent it to them once after a party, and every time they try to give it back it starts raining again. 

Gimli takes the neatly folded bundle of cheap nylon and turns it over in his hands. 

“There’s a storm due in just as you’re leaving, if you can get out on time tonight,” Legolas is saying absent-mindedly, still rooting through his bag for something else, “And if you can’t, you’ll be caught right in the middle, lucky you. You forgot your lunch for today too. I know you’re thinking about a million different things right now but you must think of yourself sometimes, Gim, here — eat between sentences if you have to—”

Gimli stops Legolas’ babbling by abandoning the proffered tupperware and umbrella on the desk, taking up Legolas’ free left hand. 

Even that little amount of tenderness dusts the elf’s high cheekbones with an attractive pink, and Gimli is amazed as always that such a pretty sight could result from love of him.

“I’ve got some time this afternoon,” Gimli lies, running the pad of his thumb over the elegant band of tungsten that circles Legolas’ fourth finger. “Maybe we could have lunch together?”

Legolas looks both unsure and hopeful. “You’re not too busy?”

“Oh, up to my arse, no doubt. But dwarves are wasted on long distance.” He winks. “I think an hour with my husband in the uni cantine might be just the morale boost I need to get me through the day, eh?”

Gimli is pleased to see Legolas positively melt.

“I’d love that,” Legolas says, before his rosy softness is completely ruined when he then wrinkles his nose, “But let’s go to Sam’s, he’ll get us through in a hurry if it’s us.”

Gimli is glad beyond measure that the tension between them is a thing of yesterday. The lightness of the mood and easy return to their usual dynamic makes him chuckle, reminds him of how grateful he is to have him.

“Alright, Prince Fusspot, Gaffer’s it is. But call ahead to let him know we’re coming. And don’t spend three ages taking pictures of the food!”

Legolas tuts and rolls his eyes as if he’d never dream of such a thing, which of course means that’s exactly what he’s going to do. Gimli laughs at him. 

“Keep yourself out of trouble until three?”

“Only until three, and not a minute longer,” Legolas agrees, making to take his latte and let Gimli get back to work tormenting the youth of today.

But before he can go, Gimli catches him by the hip to shepherd him wordlessly back. As natural as breathing Legolas leans down, cups Gimli’s bristly cheek. They share a single, slow kiss, which Legolas finishes with a playful yank at Gimli’s mustache. 

When Legolas straightens up and backs out of the classroom, he looks as content as a cat in the sun, biting his lip now for a much more pleasant reason. 

Gimli watches him go. When he turns back to the not-actually empty class to find four students gawping at him, he almost laughs at their stunned silence. He isn’t sure at which point they stopped pretending like they _weren’t_ eavesdropping, but right now they each look like a deer caught in the headlights. He’ll be overhearing whispers about Dr. Gloinûl and his internet-famous elf-husband for the rest of the week.

“Don’t you have places to be?” he says to them with a gruff voice that disguises his amusement. 

The 101 students jolt in unison and then scurry off to their next lessons. This afternoon’s lecture will be the 612 class, a small group of wonderfully engaging masters candidates that never fail to remind him why he loves teaching. 

Gimli slurps his coffee, decides he will grant that extension. Today might yet be salvaged after all.


End file.
